


Blood, Soap, Salt & Lemons

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Johnlock Trope Challenge [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caretaking, Challenge Response, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Trope Challenge, M/M, Minor Injuries, One Shot, Sexual Tension, Shirtless, Sickfic, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While treating John's minor injury, Sherlock finds himself kneeling in front of John's bare torso, his hands lingering...</p><p>For Day 18 of the Johnlock Trope Challenge: Post-case Patch Up<br/>(aka Caring for After-Action Injuries)<br/>johnlocktropechallenge.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood, Soap, Salt & Lemons

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that this is a series of one-shots for a challenge and these stories will be wildly different in style and tone as I try out some new things. They aren't meant to connect to each other in any way. There's a 48-hour window to write and submit these, so results may vary!

“Hold still.” Sherlock peeled the shirt from John’s back, being as gentle as possible and trying not to worry unnecessarily about the alarmingly red spot staining the fabric. Blood normally didn’t bother him, not even his own. But this -- seeing John’s blood -- was making him unusually anxious. 

They were in the kitchen at Baker Street, dealing with the aftermath of an unfortunate altercation. They apparently had gotten a little too close to exposing a smuggling operation and had been sent a warning in the form of two burly men blocking their way in a deserted side street. One drew a knife, and Sherlock had watched in momentary awe as John instantly charged into the man like an enraged bulldog. Then he had his own 6-foot-2 problem to deal with.

They had walked away with a few bruises and scrapes, the other two men left incapacitated on the ground. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, after the adrenaline had faded, that John stopped, wincing. He felt his side, withdrew his fingers covered with blood. “Shit. I got cut.”

Sherlock stared at the blood, stricken motionless for a moment. John moved to the cover of a doorway and cautiously lifted the corner of his shirt. He twisted his torso, trying to see the wound. “I don’t think it’s very deep. But dammit…”

Sherlock could see an angry red line about 3 inches long seeping bright red blood. “What do we do?” He’d suddenly forgotten the most basic first aid.

They were on the street in broad daylight, and John pressed his hand over the cut. “Well, we can’t stand here. We’re not that far from the flat. Go to the pharmacy on the corner. I need to you to get some things.”

Sherlock had followed his directions and was now helping John off with his shirt, a shaft of sunlight providing bright light to work by. John had done an initial cleaning of the wound and kept a flannel pressed against it while Sherlock had been at the pharmacy. John now gingerly lifted the cloth, grimacing at the awkward angle he had to make in order to see the cut above his waist, nearly on his back. At least the bleeding was under control. 

Sherlock tossed the shirt aside and watched John nervously. “What can I do?”

“First of all, calm down. It’s not that bad. It won’t need stitches.”

Sherlock nodded, trying to adjust his face into some semblance of composure. Why was this getting to him?

“You’re going to have to put the bandages on, I can’t quite reach. Wash your hands first.”

Sherlock nodded again as he rolled up his sleeves, then cleaned his hands with soap that smelled strongly of lemons, his own knuckles raw and stinging.

He turned back to John, who stood shirtless, his neck curved as he looked down at his side, the sun lighting his hair, his collar bones hollowed out in shadows. 

If the knife had gone deeper, had seriously harmed John, Sherlock thought, he would not hesitate to hunt the assailant down and break every bone in his body…

John glanced up and Sherlock refocused on the task at hand. He was really too tall to reach the cut while standing, so he kneeled down by John’s side. Focus, he repeated to himself, suddenly finding himself in a very intimate position. 

The edges of the wound lined up. Sterile adhesive strips, the package ripped open, peeled off the sheet, laid one-by-one over the cut starting in the middle, alternating in a series of rows to keep the skin together. Two longer strips placed across the rows, top and bottom, to anchor them in place. Finally, a square of cotton gauze held by John as Sherlock tore off four lengths of tape to secure it. He pressed on the last piece of white tape, carefully smoothed down the edges, was reluctant to lift his fingers. He let them linger on John’s bare skin, and the room grew still. 

He felt John’s hand gently touch the top of his head, fingers lightly twining into his hair. Without thinking, Sherlock slid his palm to John’s stomach, feeling the heat contained there, skimming along the bottom of his rib cage, the bones palpable, then curving up and around his waist, the muscle firm. He wanted to keep exploring, curious to know how John was put together, sinew by sinew, his lips so close to his waist, wanting to know what he tasted like…

Sherlock slowly dropped his mouth to John’s side, just next to the bandage, let his tongue touch his skin. It tasted faintly of soap and salt, the scent of lemons left by his own hands mixing with the dry, bitter notes of tape and gauze. 

He felt John’s fingers slide deeper into his hair and tighten their grip as he turned John by the hips, his mouth traveling toward his stomach, to his ribs, retracing the trail his palm had made moments ago. Fascinating how different the experience of the same body was using different senses… 

John inhaled sharply when Sherlock’s tongue reached a spot just below his navel. Sherlock finally raised his eyes to John, his hands still cradling his hips. He would do anything John asked of him at this moment.

John’s breath was shallow as he held Sherlock’s gaze. He was torn, wishing for that luscious mouth to keep traveling down and take him in, surround him… He wanted that. Badly. But it would end too quickly -- they could just walk away, could chalk it up to the heat of the moment, nothing more. What he really wanted was something far more intimate, something slow burning and impossible to ignore.

John pulled Sherlock up, then pressed him back so he leaned against the table, balancing out their heights. He stood between Sherlock’s thighs, his fingers starting at the top of his deep blue shirt, undoing each pearlescent button until he slid it off Sherlock’s shoulders, down his arms, left it discarded on the tabletop. Now they were evenly matched, bare torso for bare torso.

He moved carefully, cautious of his injury, but the cut didn’t hurt anymore as his hands smoothed over Sherlock’s chest and arms and shoulders, exploring in turn, running over the start of a dark purple bruise, sliding up to the nape of his neck, watching Sherlock’s lips part slightly, eyes drifting down as they drew closer together. 

John waited a moment, soaking in the heavy, sultry, tension-filled few seconds that would never be repeated in quite the same way, memorizing the dark line of Sherlock’s lashes, the imprint of his hands on his back, before covering Sherlock’s mouth with his own, hearing the hitch in Sherlock’s breath, feeling the curve of his cheekbone under his fingertips, savoring the way Sherlock opened up under him, his blood heating hungrily in anticipation of the long and languid afternoon ahead.


End file.
